


Tantras

by omegaxibir



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Intersex, M/M, Meditation, Object Insertion, Pre-Overwatch, Robot Sex, Slow Burn, Tantric Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Wire Play, valveplug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 18:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omegaxibir/pseuds/omegaxibir
Summary: Genji learns a lot of things at the Shambali, but he finds himself curious about a kind of meditative tantra that Zenyatta has yet to mention to him. This, like everything else, is a learning experience, but one with which they can both find new kinds of pleasure.---a.k.a., the boys indulge in some nice tantric sex





	Tantras

**Author's Note:**

> as ever, genji & zenyatta have both male and female genitalia, so both male and female gendered terms are used for them. i might add another chapter of this at some point, but since it's tantric, this scene could foreseeably go on for goddamn ever, so i cut it off there, haha

They move in tandem, synced in minutiae; the twist of each joint is mirrored and replicated with perfect accuracy. Even his breath is held, heart rate slowed, as though by delaying each organic process, he could become closer to that other, synthetic half of himself, rather than dwelling in the joinery of two fractious parts. 

Even now, years on, he struggles with such a mindset, closeness to his Master only reminding him of the distance pulling them apart. Is such closeness manufactured? A falsity borne of desperation? Once, he would have said yes. Now, he is content in its paradox, no longer spending long nights anguishing over it. 

Zenyatta cannot breathe sweet air against his lips, he cannot place his head upon his breast to hear the pumping of a heart, he cannot dream of him. Whatever organic processes are taken for granted amongst human couples are a lost cause between them; there are no pheromones to lay subtly upon the air and ease their love along, no anxieties of old age to tie them irrevocably together. They are not alike, nor will they ever be. It is an impossibility with which they are now both at ease. 

Lost once again in that familiar river of thought, he holds a pose for several seconds too long, breath dormant in his lungs, eyes gazing upon nothing and everything. 

Missing nothing, Zenyatta rotates his head towards him, observing for a moment before he abandons his own pose and curls his legs up and beneath himself again, resting comfortably against the pinioned steel. The joints of pseudo-shoulders roll and twist as he settles into a mudra, fingertips pressed together, and he closes the distance between them. 

“Genji? What troubles you.” It comes as less of a question than a statement, that peculiar cadence seeming to uproot the expected rhythm of organic communication. 

The man blinks, slowly dropping his arms to his sides. Silence laps at them for a moment before Genji smiles, bringing a hand to press at his own chest. “Apologies, master. No troubles, only thoughts.” 

A pleased hum emanates from the omnic’s throat, and he cocks his head in interest. “Ones you desire to keep secret?” There is no pressure in the question, only curiosity. 

“Yes, for now,” Genji admits, bowing his head in what might have been an apology. A sly smile curves what is left of his mouth, the flesh of his lip malleable where the rubber-steel amalgam of his lower jaw is not. “Master... You have taught me much of the tantras, and how to apply them - but you’ve yet to mention one in particular...,” He says, dark eyes squinted as he waits for Zenyatta’s reaction. He has gotten used to the fact that he will never have expressions to betray him, and that, indeed, the omnic is rarely surprised at all. Genji has learned of other ways to pick up on his mood, and his eyes scan for them expertly now. 

Feigning ignorance, Zenyatta makes a melodic sound that embodies a question. “Surely I have spoken of them all.” 

“All but one,” Genji insists, and Zenyatta’s sensors catch the glint of light off Genji’s metal incisors. “Surely one so knowledgeable as you, Master, would know of tantric love-making, no?” Genji might be edging forty, but he remains as sharp and mischievous as someone half his age. It amuses and delights Zenyatta to no end. 

“Ahh,” Zenyatta begins, and Genji immediately recognizes the sound as one preceding a lecture. “A common misconception. In antiquity there was nothing of the sort - at least, no sexual act thought to bring spiritual power to the perpetrator.” Genji thinks perhaps there has been no less-attractive way to describe sex. “That was something invented by the West.” He wonders if the joke, the implication, has sailed past the monk as silence lapses between them, but then he hears the clicking of one of Zenyatta’s older processors and sees a twitch in one wrist. 

“...But, in such sexual acts I see the potential for much learning, and the gathering of much willpower. For what is intercourse but a wordless communication, the speaking of one soul to another?” 

Genji blinks, the air in his lungs leaving in one big huff. Leave it to Zenyatta... 

“Was there a suggestion in that question, Sparrow?” A warmth lilts the words, the omnic equivalent of a smile. It sparks a buzz in Genji’s chest, blood flushing upward; high cheekbones get a tinge of pink, while the exposed flesh of his chest gets the barest hint of blush. 

“It is only that you are a Master of so much, that I thought I could learn one more practice from you.” 

That earns a bit of laughter, the pistons in Zenyatta’s sides moving rhythmically, shoulders bouncing as his voicebox emits the sweetest sound Genji has had the good graces to hear. 

“Even with so many years separating you from your past life, your capabilities for sweet-talking are still honed to a sharp edge.” His hands drop from the mudra, and he reaches for his pupil, making contact at one scarred shoulder and then dragging his fingertips down to the sturdy bones of his wrist. “Yes, I suppose I have experienced that form of tantra once or twice in my life. Now, the question is simply would you be a studious enough pupil to be worthwhile?” He teases, a question warranting no real response. 

Genji leans forward at the waist, giving a slow, intimately-charged bow before he steps forward, placing a kiss to the dot array gracing his forehead. There is a gentle warmth from the lights there, an electric fuzzing that he can feel on his skin, almost like static. “I would spend the rest of my life learning from you, Master.” 

He doesn’t smile, because he cannot; he does not wish otherwise, does not long to be human - does not long to be something that he is not. But Genji understands, in that way that he has learned, what Zenyatta’s smile is: the soft sigh of relaxation, the brightening of his array. It is a subtlety lost on most humans, but one that gives Genji no small amount of joy. 

“Come, then, Genji. Let us put ourselves to a more practical physical purpose.” He turns as he speaks, dainty metal body floating away from the tranquility of their garden and towards the entrance to the Shambali, the door ensconced by a massive mandala in turns etched and painted on different levels. As always, Zenyatta reached out a hand as he passed it, caressing it with such tenderness that Genji found himself wondering if perhaps he did have the same minute sensation as that of any organic fingertips. Mirroring the action, he followed behind the monk, fancying that he could feel the lingering warmth from his touch. 

They pass a few others in the stone hallways, two monks busily discussing the menu for the following day, and a human journalist being guided by a senior monk. Zenyatta offered his greetings to them all, a gentle incline of the head and a lifting of the hands into a welcoming mudra, but he didn’t stop to chat as he might usually have done; he moves with purpose, as does Genji behind him, metal feet clacking against the soft stone. He can’t help but foster a spark of excitement in his breast, eager to let it bloom into something larger - but not until behind closed doors. 

The doors, by the way, were only due to insistence from Genji. The quarters of every other omnic in the Shambali were sequestered off by nothing more than fabric curtains, if even those. The few human monks in residence there were all alike in one way: they had all requested doors. Although it had made Zenyatta chuckle, he hadn’t questioned Genji’s desire for privacy, simply forwarding the requisition to the proper branch. 

Now, he closes them behind him, pressing it until he hears the soft click of the lock sliding home. When he turns, Zenyatta is watching him, hands comfortably folded into his lap. 

“Well? From where shall our lesson begin?” Genji smiles again, cupping a hand to his breast as he steps forward, the fingers of his opposing hand curling into the fabric of his robe. A sharp tug in the right spot is enough to shed the garment, letting it slide off his shoulder and away from his narrow hips. Where once he had refused to see himself, much less be seen, now he is shameless and unafraid of his own skin. It gleams in the yellow light of the tableside lamp, pale and pink, the many scars diffusing the same light and darkening the skin around them, tight and dimpled. Metal and rubber fuse into the edges of his ribs, a jarring marriage of machine with flesh, but Genji has learned that there is a beauty in that part of him that is just as intrinsic as the beauty of any supermodel. Those parts of him are sleek and well-formed, every part with a function, every function a necessity. Instead of toned abdominal muscles, he has the expertly engineered carbon steel that protects his fabricated organs; in lieu of a heart, a miniscule pump to force the blood through his veins. And what of it is unattractive? 

Nothing, Zenyatta thinks, nothing could have more or less beauty than the sight before him. 

More slowly than his student, he begins working at the knot on his own robe, visual arrays never straying from the man before him, who has settled down onto his knees in a pose of deference, heels supporting his haunches. The full extent of Zenyatta’s chestpiece is revealed first, the almost overtly delicate structure of his waist exposed to the air, and Genji watches it, enraptured, as it moves and twitches as Zenyatta folds his robe. His long legs straighten in the air, and he grips the sash around his waist to catch it as it slides off, and then places both items carefully on the chest at the foot of their bed. 

Their bed. Genji will not tire of that novelty anytime soon. 

Half-lidded eyes follow as each new inch of steel is exposed, his inner robes shed as carefully as all the rest. Thin, but shapely legs emerge, formed of a series of steel rods pinioned together in a way that is reminiscent of an organic bone structure. Here, Genji thinks, the delicate thinness of a fibula, and there the more stout and load-bearing tibia, and connecting each the nerves and tendons of the omnic: rubber-coated wires. 

The manufactured salivary glands beneath Genji’s tongue fill his mouth with spit as he drinks him in, and he hums deep in his chest, looking up at the omnic with adoration. Zenyatta reaches for him, his fingers touching at Genji’s temple, his cheek, the rubber-and-steel of his jaw. Genji reaches up with his mechanical arm, sliding his palm upward until their fingers have matched together, palm to palm, metal to metal. 

It is the closest thing they have to kissing, and it is deeper than any connection Genji had otherwise known with humans. Tiny sparks of static electricity jump from one surface to the other, charging up between them as Zenyatta’s eminence pulsates, nothing but a glimmer of his true self, but enough to wet Genji’s desires. For a moment, their minds meld, leaving him space-headed and calm, and they sigh together, Genji’s eyes falling shut. A comfortable symbiosis is achieved as Zenyatta helps to ease and soothe Genji, while his pupil reminds him of the heady emotions which he so often neglects. 

When Genji comes to, he can’t be certain of how much time has passed; Zenyatta’s fingers have slid between his own, tightly clasping his hand and gently tugging him to his feet. “Come here,” He says, and there is not an inkling of protest in Genji’s body. 

To any human onlooker, there would not be the same licentiousness inherent in their nudity as with an organic body; most of Genji’s flesh has been carved away, overtaken by the mesh of metal and progress, while Zenyatta seemingly lacks the general erotic power of soft curves and supple flesh. Once, that had been a preoccupation of Genji’s mind as well. Now he sees what before he had presciently ignored. 

Yes, yes, there is an eros about him that cannot be overlooked, he thinks, as Zenyatta settles back against rough cotton sheets. The curve of his chassis down to his waist, bracketed by wires and structural supports that blend with the rest, the bronze-gold of his bolts and haphazard welds, all speak of an unbearable intimacy that Zenyatta is willing to share with him. Right there, at the base of his throat, sits a bundle of wires and cords that, if cut, could end him. Zenyatta lays with them bared to him, unafraid. Hips, almost too-slender, shift beneath him, starting a slide of pistons and hydraulics all the way up to the base of his neck, one long, sensuous movement. What beauty is elsewhere that Zenyatta lacks? Nothing, Genji thinks. Nothing at all. 

A pale hand rests on Zenyatta’s chassis, feeling the gentle whir of processors vibrate his casing. No doubt once that casing had been perfect and shiny, unburnished, but now it has dulled, marred by a thousand tiny scratches and microabrasions. Once, Genji had suggested he get it buffed back to ‘perfection.’ And why do you believe newness to be akin to perfection? Zenyatta had inquired, and that had been the end of that. Now, he understands, and appreciates what each tiny mark means to the life the monk has lived. His fingers curl, and he sits back between Zenyatta’s legs, thumb rubbing along the edge of his chest. 

“Tell me your understanding of tantric sex,” Zenyatta says suddenly, breaking them from the comfortable silence. 

“That it would be like that of any other tantra. An exercise in patience, a higher understanding of physical presence to bring us closer to our spiritual presence. Isn’t it?” Genji opines, each word coming slowly, thoughtfully. It isn’t a test, a chance to out and tease him for any misunderstandings. He knows that by now. 

“Very good, Sparrow,” He praises, taking Genji’s wrist loosely in one hand, just to feel him. “It is a reminder to the self that we do not require physical reward. A climb without an end or celebration, as it were. That pleasure, in any form, is just as equivalent as any other pleasure, or any other pain.” His voice comes gently, a placid and affable tone that lulls Genji into a more pliable mindset. “Do you understand what that means?” 

As always, he speaks in nebulous terms, requiring a careful dissection of meaning. “You mean... Sex without orgasm,” Genji says plainly, peering at the omnic. 

“Essentially... yes. It is more than simply that, of course. One should tune into one’s mind and body, feeling every little sensation as they come, without thought to dwell or scrutinize. Pure acceptance, an understanding without effort.” 

That, at least, is a familiar concept. Meditation is an attempt at the same, and a mindset that Genji has gotten more and more comfortable with over the past few years. He inclines his head in understanding, shifting to step over Zenyatta’s unfolded leg and lay beside him. Zenyatta revolves his head to face him, watching as Genji settles down. 

“Does it sound desirable? Achievable?” 

“Oh, yes, Master,” Genji assures him, and Zenyatta laughs again, touching his exposed ribs. “And not just for the obvious reasons,” He hastily adds, smiling. 

“Of course,” he teases, and sits up, appraising his student. He strikes a handsome figure against the bedsheets, hair messily falling over his brow, the scars of his scalp a stark pink juxtaposition to his dark hair. He has laid on his side, shoulders half-hunched in on themselves, one leg curved comfortably over the other, toes pointed down. He looks at peace. Happy. 

“Then we shall begin, as per your request,” Zenyatta intones half-seriously, and grips each of Genji’s thighs, gently pulling them apart. Between them, in the valley of his legs, lays a mechanical intervention; a soft penis is limp against his hip, and beneath it, the cleft of a small cunt, tucked almost shyly away. A fine mesh of sensors lays just under the soft pseudo-skin of each, lending him just as much sensation as his prior organs - in this, he lacks nothing. When Zenyatta prods at his cunt, an index finger stroking the length of it, his labia part as though blossoming open, revealing the supple insides. Like many other parts of his synthetic body, a slight glow emanates from it, a cool green that seems to light up the slick lubrication oozing from him. 

“Pretty as the last falling cherry blossom,” Zenyatta murmurs, and Genji can’t hold back a chuckle. 

“My cunt is the last thing I would have imagined to remind you of mujo, Master.” 

“Oh, but within it, the universe,” He says quietly, and Genji isn’t sure if it is spoken tongue-in-cheek. A blunt metal finger travels the length of it once more, lingering now at his hole; above him, Genji’s breath stutters and then smooths out again. He parts his thighs wider of his own accord, shifting his ass down to better present himself. While one finger rubs at his hole, teasingly refusing to press in, Zenyatta’s other hand is more giving, wrapping around the length of Genji’s slowly fattening cock. Each stroke is maddening in an all new way, the twist of Zenyatta’s wrist changing, the rhythm lengthening. Never quite enough, almost too much. 

Just as pre-cum begins to bead at the tip of his glans, Zenyatta pulls away, moving his attention elsewhere. Genji has half a mind to whine for more - that half of him that still remains hedonistic, wanting and needy. The other half keeps it in check, remembering the importance of patience. Instead of focusing on his desire for more, he focuses on the tightness that is beginning to grip at his chest, the fine tremors in his jaw and lip, the tingling pleasure lighting along every millimeter of his penis. It combines into a heady concoction of pure intimacy, and he gives a small noise of contentment, a reward for both of them. 

The next sensation is so overwhelming that he almost reflexively jerks away: Zenyatta has taken one sensitive foot between both hands, pressing his thumbs into the middle of a cluster of sensory nodes. They are an extraordinarily attuned part of his body, engineered to notice and perceive everything so as to best complete his job as warrior. His toes spread, ankle rolling as the feelings rocket up his wiring to relay information to his brain. Zenyatta is unrelenting, fingers continuing to assault each node in turn, making the pump in his chest work harder to cool him as his body begins to warm up. 

His cock is almost fully hard by the time Zenyatta releases him, brushing the backs of his knuckles along the graceful arch of his foot. The slide of metal against his rubberized skin lights a thousand nerve endings both organic and inorganic on fire, and he can’t help but tremble against the sheets as he urges himself to focus on the feeling to exclusion of all else. It’s difficult, honestly, much more difficult than the day-to-day meditation he has become accustomed to. The desire to lock his eyes on Zenyatta and think lascivious thoughts is overwhelming, the urge to single-mindedly chase down completion almost debilitating. 

But he will be a good student. He is determined to be. 

Unaware of the specifics but no doubt sensing his struggles already, Zenyatta frees him of all contact, content to simply watch him squirm for a moment. He doesn’t move again until Genji allows his eyes to open, dark brown irises locking on his shiny facade. “Where was your mind?” Zenyatta prompts, genuinely curious. 

“Here,” He answers immediately, and it is the truth. “My mind was on the feeling of every extremity at once, and the electricity you provoked.” 

“Tell me.” 

Genji pauses to gather his thoughts, fishing for words adequate enough to describe what is beyond description. “I felt every ounce of blood and coolant rushing through me, dissipating heat and hormones, flushing my skin and filling my organs. I felt the minute electric currents of your hands, almost undetectable, as they connected with my sensors. I felt a pleasure subtle and distinct, and the heat of your body, like the weak warmth of a morning sun.” The words spill from his mouth unedited, a jumble of his thoughts all at once. Zenyatta hums in response, a genial, electronic thing from deep in his throat. 

“Good. Very good, Genji. You have stayed present thus far; try to continue, as we go.” 

“But, Master,” He objects, sitting up on his elbows. “I don’t want this to be solely an exercise for me. What about you?” 

“I get my own pleasure from this, to be certain,” He reassures, but Genji is already shaking his head. 

“No, that’s not what I mean. I want to reciprocate.” 

“Ah.” A pause. “You will not see me moving to stop you.” 

A wicked grin overtakes his face, and he sits all the way up, leaning in to give a kiss at what would have been Zenyatta’s mouth, were he human. Both hands cup his sides, squeezing faintly at the supports there before he guides him into the spot he had just vacated. “On your front, Master. If you please.” 

He does please, settling onto his chest without objection. He’s a spindly little thing, all soft angles and too-small proportions, a waist small enough for Genji to encircle it in both hands, and hips not much wider. A bundle of wires weaves its way down his back, a spine of sorts, held in place by bands of titanium and plugging into the base of his faceplate. He strokes the connection there, feels Zenyatta reflexively jerk as electricity is exchanged between them, leans in and kisses the back of his head. 

Most of his body lacks sensory input; no erogenous zones for omnics when there’s no need for sensation. Genji touches anyway, more for his own pleasure than Zenyatta’s, stroking at numbed shoulders and upper arms, the blunted edge of his chestpiece. Down, down, tracing the delicate servos at his hips, the stout steel braces of his thighs. Zenyatta obliges when Genji moves to part his legs, unabashed of revealing what ordinarily lay hidden there. 

Zenyatta mirrors Genji in every way, nothing separating them here except the color which illuminates them: where Genji glows green, Zenyatta sheds a pale golden light. Oh, oh, Genji breathes, as stricken with desire now as he had been the very first time he saw him. Remembering the task at hand, he forces himself to clear his mind, directing all of his attention and senses to the omnic before him. 

A pseudo-flesh tongue pokes between Genji’s gnarled lips, making only the most minute contact with Zenyatta’s cunt - still, he feels it, offering a prolonged sigh of supplication. He’s inhumanly cool there, the metal surrounding the rubber composite of his cunt soaking up most of the heat from his processors. Cool, soft, dripping wet, the sweetest thing the world has to offer. Genji laps at it eagerly but tauntingly, first here and then there, never making contact with the same spot twice in a row. Even running a predictability algorithm, Zenyatta cannot reason where he will touch next. It is an unpredictability that ruins him more quickly than anything else, shaking against the sheets as he is lapped at. 

It is not until Zenyatta squeaks out Genji’s name that he allows himself to go any farther, no matter how badly he wants it. One long lick along the dripping slit of his cunt, the tip of his tongue making contact against his hole, is enough to make the omnic shudder with delight. 

“Remaining present, Master?” Genji asks, muffled as he is against his pussy, tongue teasing between his folds to lick up one side, and down the other. 

“Yes,” He says simply, voice strained and clipped as he attempts to keep himself together. He speaks again, needing no prompting: “The matrix of pressure points... You are making contact with each of them, in turn, never allowing me but a moment to feel one before being faced with the crushing pleasure of the next. Wave upon wave, building and breaking. Focusing on each taxes my RAM but- but-” He breaks off there, as Genji’s lips wrap around the fat nub of his clitoris and suck at it, feeling it warm up against his tongue. “Torturous,” He finally manages, voice on the fritz, climbing and falling the length of his vocal register. 

Huffing a laugh, he pulls away to give the Master a respite, wiping at the fluids on his face with the back of his hand. 

“May I interpose, Master, with a game to test the limits of your abilities to focus?” His voice is teasing, deadly playful, and Zenyatta groans faintly, hips shimmying as he rubs his thighs together. 

“When would I ever turn you down, Sparrow?” 

Remaining face-down on the bed, he feels the shift of the mattress as Genji stands, hears the faint patter of his feet as he moves about the room, shuffling here and there. He knows better than to turn his visual array towards him, already knows what sort of game this shall be. Instead, he buries his faceplate further into the pillows, waiting. Weight settles back onto the bed, shuffling to position himself comfortably between the monk’s legs. Then stillness. Quiet. 

It remains as such for an indeterminate amount of time, both minds swirling for a while before settling, content in the wait. Zenyatta settles into a half-meditative state, thinking of nothing, processors whirring down into gradual silence. 

Warmth presses against him. For now, Zenyatta makes no attempt to guess at what it might be, simply accepting it for whatever it is. It avoids pressing into his hole, instead opting to slide between the lips of his cunt, starting up a slow and steady rhythm as it rubs against him. It’s slick and smooth, rounded at the edges, providing an uninterrupted slide against his sex. 

Genji leans over him, slipping an arm beneath the frame of his hips to wrap thumb and forefinger around the base of his cock, trapping coolant there. He’s rewarded with a sudden blitz of high frequency sound from Zenyatta’s voicebox, ass canting up and out. 

“Tsk-tsk, Master. Was that an attempt at fulfilling physical desire? Patience, omnic. Settle. Feel what I give you. Accept it.” 

He is right. Even a monk may lose himself, now and again - and with Genji, it is made all too easy. Humming his acknowledgement, he stills himself again, leaving his hips slightly raised for better access. 

Genji never pulls away, continuing the same rhythmic slide all the while. He can watch as his cunt plumps up with trapped coolant and lubricant, the golden fluid slowly dripping down his own thighs and Genji’s hands, can watch his clit twitch with electrical activity. It’s a sight that makes his own blood rush, feels it in the tips of his ears and in a tightening in his gut. 

The movement slowly lengthens its stroke, and a new feeling is added to the mix: a rough texture is striped across the object, rubbing over the ridge of Zenyatta’s clit and making his processors work overtime. Behind him, a smirk lifts the corners of Genji’s mouth, knowing exactly what he must be feeling. 

“What do you think I have seen fit to pleasure you with, Master?” 

“I don’t know,” He answers automatically, voice now a strained staccato. “I have not allowed myself to consider it.” 

“I’ll allow you to consider it now.” 

So he does. 

From the tip to the new texture, he thinks, fifteen centimeters: fifteen centimeters that he feels with every long, laborious slide against his cunt. A diameter wide enough to part his cunt lips wide, but not perfectly cylindrical, he thinks. The band of texture, raised and rough, could only be twine; he feels, now, where it has been knotted, the ball of it grazing his rapidly oversensitizing clitoris. And now, here, a cold metal ridge makes contact with the front of his pubic mound, a bead of static passing between them and making the monk yelp. 

Though he takes his time in considering it, time is relative in the age of microprocessors. His response comes almost immediately, tinged with surprise: 

“Your tantō?” 

“My tantō,” Genji agrees, suddenly shifting the blade to press the blunt edge of the scabbard against his hole. 

“Please...” 

“Patience.”


End file.
